"I'm taking the rifle, Oscar; and be sure those revolvers are loaded with
the real goods."
There was a great color in Armitage's face as he strode about preparing
to leave. His eyes danced with excitement, and between the sentences that
he jerked out half to himself he whistled a few bars from a comic opera
that was making a record run on Broadway. His steps rang out vigorously
from the bare pine floor.
"Watch the windows, Oscar; you may forgive a general anything but a
surprise--isn't that so, Claiborne?--and those fellows must be pretty mad
by this time. Excuse the coffee service, Claiborne. We always pour the
sugar from the paper bag--original package, you understand. And see if
you can't find Captain Claiborne a hat, Oscar--"
With a tin-cup of steaming coffee in his hand he sat on the table
dangling his legs, his hat on the back of his head, the cartridge belt
strapped about his waist over a brown corduroy hunting-coat. He was in a
high mood, and chaffed Oscar as to the probability of their breakfasting
another morning. "If we die, Oscar, it shall be in a good cause!"
He threw aside his cup with a clatter, jumped down and caught the sword
from the table, examined it critically, then sheathed it with a click.
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